


between a special kind of hell and a fantastic sort of heaven

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Jackson-Centric, M/M, Miscommunication, Tumblr Prompt, Workaholic Jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting a new job can be a special kind of hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	between a special kind of hell and a fantastic sort of heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This was written based on [a tumblr prompt](http://your-otp-prompts.tumblr.com/post/131939621100/imagine-person-a-of-your-otp-has-had-a-lot-of-work) that just made me think of Stiles and Jackson. Because Jackson is that person who would work SO HARD for approval at his job and then turn around and realize that he'd really fucked up at home.
> 
> This is basically hot off the fingertips, with absolutely no editing, so I apologize for any typos or inconsistencies.

Starting a new job is a special kind of hell, particularly when Jackson was hauled in to bring an already late and over-budget project out of the pit. When he takes on the assignment, the boss insists that the project has to go live in exactly four weeks, without spending any extra, unbudgeted money. Jackson knows that the people on the project are going to hate him, but he isn’t here to make friends; he’s here to make things _work_.

And in order to get there, he has to work his own ass off to figure out how to pull off a miracle.

He spends eighty hours the first week going over the budget, figuring out what’s already spent and where there might be a few pennies he can reroute. He goes over the staffing and assignments, making charts on what still needs to be done, who’s qualified to do it, and who won’t work with whom. He arrives at seven in the morning and drinks two cups of coffee before eight, finally remember to eat a bagel for breakfast around ten. He works straight through lunch, only eating a sandwich mid-afternoon because Hazel makes him do it, and he knows someone’s paying her to keep him organized and feeding him is part of that. He goes home at six the first night, but he lays the paperwork out on the coffee table, works on spreadsheets until eleven, with Stiles complaining all the while in the background.

Jackson tells him that it’s only until he gets this sorted out. Only until he’s _done_. Next week will be better. He _promises_.

The following day he doesn’t leave the office until he’s done for the day, getting home around midnight and tip-toeing into their room, passing out cold until the alarm goes off five hours later and he gets up to do it all over again. By Thursday he realizes that he hasn’t seen Stiles awake since Monday night, when he was sniping at him for being too busy. He resolves to leave work _early_ but at ten o’clock when he shoves papers into a bag along with his laptop and stumbles home, Stiles isn’t there. He isn’t asleep, he isn’t watching TV or playing games, he just _isn’t there_. He thinks about texting him, asking where he’s gone, but Jackson figures that he might as well just get a little more done.

He sets up in the living room and dives back in. When he wakes up in the morning, his laptop’s screensaver is whirring, and there’s a blanket thrown over his shoulders. He pads quietly into the bedroom to find Stiles sleeping there, and for just a moment Jackson wants to crawl into bed with him and cuddle in tight.

But he can’t, not now, not if he wants to finish this part of the job and have _time_ again. So he backs out and closes the door quietly, packing things up to sneak out to work.

The first weekend disappears in a haze of emergency meetings with the team, outlining which assignments are staying constant and which are changing. He appoints new team leaders, distributes project plans. He goes over every detail with careful precision, addressing issues as they arise and handling complaints (and there are _so many_ complaints). He explains that long hours will be needed because they _will not miss this deadline_.

The team stares mutely back at him, but when he explains that he’s in it with them, that he will be there as long as they will, they begin to warm up.

In his second week, the real work begins.

Jackson makes good on his promise. He speaks to the leaders and to his bosses, wrangles enough funds to bring in donuts or bagels in the morning along with a supply of good coffee. He lays in lunch every day, and dinner at night. He gets music started in some spaces, and creates quiet work zones for those who need them. There are morning kickoff meetings, status meetings over lunch, and a late night roundup before some continue on into the dark hours.

Jackson realizes that the couch in his office isn’t entirely uncomfortable, although he hates the way it smells of the stale storage room it came from rather than Stiles’s shampoo.

By the third week, Jackson feels like a zombie. He’s barely at home, kissing Stiles when he passes through in order to shower or grab a change of clothes. When Stiles tries to convince him to stay for dinner, Jackson apologizes and leaves again because there’s an important set of changes being pushed into the test system that night, and he has to make sure that everything’s ready to go through quality control in the morning.

Testing is a nightmare. Every day Jackson is moving between QC and the development team, trying to translate between user and technical speech, involving the team leaders to ensure that the teams can address and solve the issues that QC brings up. They don’t have long to test; the product has to be _done_ in less than two weeks. The deadline looms and exhausted developers are making more mistakes than they fix.

At the end of the third week, Jackson calls a halt for the afternoon. The staff needs a break desperately, and he states that there will be _no work_ for three hours. Half the staff chooses to nap, but the other half sprawl in conference rooms for movies and food. At the end of the break, Jackson sends half the staff home, asking them to return on Saturday, and tells the rest to go home in the morning and sleep through Saturday. He switches them to split shifts, but there is no one to take his place so he stays.

He makes it home late Sunday morning, a day off before the final push. Jackson falls into bed, wraps himself around Stiles’s pillow, and sleeps much of the day away, undisturbed. He wakes into the late afternoon, blinking confusedly because he’s _not_ in his office and yet there’s no noise from the apartment. He opens his phone to text Stiles and realizes that they talked about this last week when Jackson called him during a dinner break. Stiles went home to Beacon Hills to see his father, took a weekend to himself since Jackson was busy.

He didn’t know he’d have a day free then, and if Jackson had remembered in the morning he might have driven down to Beacon Hills to surprise him. But he was exhausted then and now it’s too late, so instead he noodles around the apartment on his own. He showers thoroughly, dresses comfortably but in the pair of jeans he knows Stiles loves best. He makes dinner and lays it out, then eats and puts away leftovers when the evening slips into night.

Stiles comes in around eleven, stops when he sees Jackson on the couch.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Stiles says quietly, and Jackson feels that like a knife to the gut.

“I got a day off.” Jackson wants to say _and you weren’t here_ but that’s not fair and he knows it, so instead he shrugs one shoulder. “I mostly slept. There’s leftovers in the fridge if you want them.”

Stiles looks like he’s going to reply, but a yawn sneaks in, stealing his words. He closes his eyes, stretches, and Jackson watches the familiar movement of his body. When he’s finally done, Stiles makes an apologetic expression. “Jackson, I am exhausted. Scott and I were up late last night talking, and Dad got me up early, and then I stuck around to have dinner after his shift, and the time on the road… I’m about ready to fall over.”

Jackson can see it in the way Stiles sways on his feet, and he just nods in response. “Go sleep. I’ll be in soon.”

It’s a comfort, at least, that when Jackson wraps himself around Stiles after midnight, Stiles grabs his hand and holds onto it, clutching it to his chest in his sleep.

Stiles doesn’t wake when Jackson slips out again in the morning.

There’s only one week left, and Jackson loses himself in the job trying to make sure that they meet deadline. He has until five o’clock on Friday afternoon, and if he has to work around the clock, they _will_ make it.

And he very nearly does that, stealing sleep a few hours at a time, working with the team every moment that he’s awake. There are moments when he thinks he won’t make it, but he texts Stiles with a countdown, promising that this is the last time, this is it, when Friday comes, it will all be normal again after that.

Stiles stops texting him back early Friday morning, and Jackson doesn’t know what to think about that. By the time five o’clock comes, the team is elated because it’s _done_. Someone brings out champagne and the corks pop and every has a glass or two along with celebratory treats, and time just slips away.

It’s after nine when Jackson finally makes it back to his car, and he checks his phone to realize that he’s missed messages from Stiles.

_When are you coming home?_

_Hey, how did it go? Did you make deadline? Are you still stuck there?_

_Jackson, hey, the countdown stopped. What’s going on?_

_Jackson?_

_I ordered dinner but you weren’t here. It’s in the fridge._

There’s nothing after that, and Jackson images Stiles putting the phone down and maybe going out, doing something other than waiting for Jackson.

He can’t blame him, he really can’t, and Jackson knows it’s his own fault for fucking this up so badly. It’s just… everything took over and he couldn’t really see it until now.

Jackson makes it home and opens the door in a rush, hearing the sound of Netflix playing in the background. He steps in and almost trips over a suitcase.

A _suitcase_.

In fact, every single suitcase they own is packed and Stiles is asleep on the sofa, one hand hanging off.

Jackson sits down hard on the floor, staring. Stiles is _leaving him_. It’s obvious, with every bag packed. He must have been waiting to say goodbye, must have fallen asleep because Jackson was late _again_ , couldn’t even be on time to be broken up with.

His throat goes tight with unshed tears, and he can’t handle this, can’t just let him go so easily. Jackson pulls off his shirt and slacks, strips down to his boxer briefs, and grabs the blanket that has fallen on the floor. He manages to wedge himself onto the couch behind Stiles, wrapping his arms around him and pulling the blanket over them both.

Jackson swallows back his fear and tears, and falls asleep with his lips pressed to the nape of Stiles’s neck, praying that in the morning he can find the words to convince Stiles to stay.

He wakes alone on the couch, chilled where the blanket puddles around his knees, the warmth of Stiles still soaked into the cushions. There are footsteps in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing almost too quietly to be heard, and the gentle sound of the coffee maker starting to drip.

Jackson swings his legs around, sits on the edge of the couch, and tries to figure out what to say.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake.”

Stiles is smiling. _Of course,_ Stiles is smiling, because he’s figured out what to do, he’s the one leaving, he’s the one who’s _all right_ with this huge decision. Whereas Jackson feels like he’s dying inside, everything crumbling around him because he’s just managed to fuck things up again.

The smile falls away and Stiles pads closer, feet bare and his jeans and t-shirt wrinkled. He sits on the edge of the coffee table facing Jackson, and takes his hands, thumbs sliding against Jackson’s fingers. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“What can I do?” Jackson asks quietly, voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper. “What can I do to make you stay? I fucked up, I know. It won’t be like that again, I promise, I won’t _let_ them make me do that again.”

Stiles’s brow furrows, mouth pursed in confusion.

“ _Don’t leave_ ,” Jackson says, and Stiles’s eyes go wide.

“Wait, what?” Stiles looks behind himself, glances around at the scattered suitcases, then back to Jackson, fingers going tight. “I’m not leaving, Jackson. _We_ are leaving. In fact, you need to get your sorry ass into the shower because if we aren’t out the door in an hour, we’re not getting to the airport in time. That’s why I packed everything last night when I realized you weren’t getting home on time.”

“We’re… leaving?” Jackson cocks his head, tries to parse the words because frankly, they make no sense. “Where the hell are we going?”

“Disneyworld.” Stiles tugs Jackson’s hands, pulls him to his feet and toward the kitchen. Jackson can see the folio on the table, the bright colors and the unmistakable silhouette of Mickey Mouse. “Ten days, and we’ll be back early enough on the last day for you to get plenty of rest before going back to work. Don’t worry, I talked to your boss and cleared everything; you’re not even getting charged vacation since you worked all those extra hours. Kali’s extremely impressed at the amount of dedication you’ve shown for the last month. She didn’t actually expect you to pull that off—she prepared the clients for the project to take another two weeks at least, then you pulled off a miracle. So I’ve been told—in very clear terms—to take you away somewhere and fuck your brains out until you’re properly relaxed.”

“When did you talk to my boss?” Jackson makes his way into the kitchen, falls into one of the chairs at their small table and sits there, staring at Stiles while he pulls out cartons of take out and starts spooning out cold lo mein and beef with broccoli. The folio is right there, so he picks it up to look at the itinerary and the tickets for the plane, as well as reservations at the Grand Meridien and park hopper passes for seven days.

“I’ve got passes for Universal, but we’re still staying at Disney and driving over,” Stiles says. “And I’ve been talking to Kali since um… your second or third day? You left a file here—it slid under the couch—and I brought it in when I found it. You were in a meeting, but she commandeered me and told me how impressed she was with your work ethic. We’ve been chatting ever since.”

“You’ve been chatting with the CEO of my company.” Because of _course_ he has. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Oh, I was. Not going to deny that one, Jackson.” Stiles sinks into the other chair, leans on the table as he tangles his fingers with Jackson’s. “But you talked to me sometimes, and she told me that you were actually on target for making the due date, so I… made these plans. And now we have forty-five minutes to eat, grab a shower, get distracted in the shower, and still get on the road for the airport. On the other hand, almost everything we own is packed in those suitcases to get us through a ten day vacation… so it’s not like we have to spend time picking out what to wear.”

Stiles starts to pull away but Jackson stops him with a small tug on his hand. He brings Stiles’s hand to his lips, lightly kisses his fingertips. “I love you,” Jackson says quietly. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It is going to take a hell of a lot more than that to get rid of me, Whittemore.” Stiles closes the distance, kisses him firmly. “Now eat your cold leftovers. We’ve got a trip to take.”

Jackson digs in; he actually loves cold stir fry, and Stiles knows it, so he usually orders it when he expects Jackson to be late. And Jackson suspects this will happen again, but he feels better knowing that they’ve gotten through this, and that while starting a new job might be a special kind of hell, there is a fantastic sort of heaven waiting for him when he gets home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com).


End file.
